


Abducted

by barbaricyawp



Series: Torture Tuesday [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: Abducted children + car trunk =...well, Peter doesn't want to think about what that equals.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings: child abuse, abduction, implied trafficking, bruises, broken bones
> 
> When I wrote this, I was not implying sexual abuse of baby Peter Parker. But that's also natural conclusion to draw, so I tagged this as underage.
> 
> This was requested by the glorious imagination1reality0.

Peter gingerly rolls over, groaning all the way. He’s been trapped in this trunk for hours. Alone and in the dark.

He’s being transported, and that’s never a good sign. Abducted children + car trunk =

…well, Peter doesn’t want to think about what it equals.

His bruises knock against the thinly carpeted metal. Deep, tender blotches along his spine, hips, and knees. No matter how he lies, the metal bumps bruise.

And he can’t shift too often, or he’ll jostle his broken femur. Each time the car hits a pothole or makes a turn, he can feel the splintered ends of bone grind together.

For the first hour of the trip, Peter was inconsolable. He cried in a way he never had before: sobbing and wracking himself. Eventually, these sobs ebbed to a steady flow of tears. Then nothing. Just blank, numb…nothing.

He misses May. He misses Ned. He misses home. 

The car stops suddenly, sending his body crashing towards the interior of the trunk. White hot pain shoots up his broken femur. Peter hisses and lifts his leg by the knee to drag it closer to his chest. 

Light pours into the trunk, and Peter flinches away from it. The sear of the sun is too much after so many hours in the dark.

They scoop him out like a bride, like a child. Despite the arrow of pain that shoots up his leg, Peter squirms in their hold.

“I don’t want to,” he says, even as they lower him into a different car, a different trunk. “Please, don’t–”

The trunk thuds closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: abduction, trafficking, child abuse, auctioning, broken bones, humiliation, stabbing, guns…but there is no explicit or implied reference to sexual abuse. 
> 
> For i-blame-my-love-of-whump-on-ryan, who asked for a part two.

Peter falls asleep in the trunk of the car. He dreams, fitfully, of the time he couldn’t save the ferry. Of the time Mr. Stark showed up in person to save and berate him.

When he wakes up, bathed in bright light, he’s disappointed that Mr. Stark isn’t here. Berating or otherwise.

They put a burlap sack over his head and lift him from the trunk. His femur is mostly healed now, and that’s a testament to how long he’s been in that trunk. Sealed up alone and broken.

Also testaments to the length of his captivity: the pressure of his over-extended bladder, the stench of his body under his sweat-limp clothes. The stale, dead taste of his own tongue in his mouth.

It’s almost a relief to feel those clothes peeled from his body. He has no idea who is looking at him, who can see his bare body, but he doesn’t care. The hands that touch him are perfunctory, almost clinical.

And the human contact is nice.

Peter is lowered into something hard and smooth. He flinches for a moment, until he realizes that the press isn’t painful…just porcelain. Warm water rushes around him and, after so long of nothing but pain, Peter is grateful.

He sinks down into the basin of water. “Thank you,” he murmurs. Breathless. “Thank you.”

Peter is roughly scrubbed down with a washcloth and soap. Someone lifts his arms up by the wrists to wash his arm pits and side. They don’t take any care to avoid his bruises or healing bones. By the end of the bath, Peter is raw all over, but clean, and he smells like Dial soap. 

They pull off the burlap sack to wash his hair, but tug it back down once they’re done. There’s a brief flash of a dimly lit room, and then Peter is sealed in the dark again.

He’s dried off with a similar disregard for his injuries, then quickly dressed in new clothes. Fresh-smelling, loose-fitting, and  _warm._ Peter wraps his arms around himself for a moment. This is as close to comfortable as he’s been for days and days.

Then his arms are bound in front of him. He is marched forward barefoot.

 

—

 

Through the burlap, Peter can hear people. Lots of people, speaking in hushed whispers. The sound of all those muffled voices makes Peter’s spine prickle. He doesn’t like being watched.

Especially if he doesn’t know who is doing the watching.

“Up next, we’ve got something very special,” a woman’s voice says over a loudspeaker, crisp and lightly accented. Friendly, almost.

Peter is guided forward, stumbling until a hand on his shoulder holds him still.

“Meet the boy behind the mask, Spider-Man himself.” Oh, come on now. That’s not cool. Revealing a guy’s secret identity like that.

The burlap sack is removed. Peter is revealed.

He blinks against the bright light. He’s on a platform, under a stage light. He was right about the murmur of people around him. But they aren’t in the same room as him. 

The platform is surrounded by dark glass panes. Peter would guess the spectators are behind that glass, in separate rooms. Straining his superior eye sight, Peter peers into these darkened rooms. He can make out the dim outline of people. Definitely people, each alone in their own booth. There’s not much more he can discern in the dark. 

Is all this to protect their anonymity? Why?

Peter can’t quite piece together what’s going on here.

“His ability to quickly heal might be of interest to some of you,” the woman continues. “For example…”

The man holding Peter by the shoulder says, “Sorry, kiddo.”

He flicks open a switchblade and Peter rolls his eyes. 

“Right,” he snarks. “My biggest weakness: small knives.”

The man holds Peter still by the jaw and slices the knife over the tender flesh of his cheek. Blood wells, then vanishes. The thin cut heals.

There’s a scatter of muted applause, but the overall response is underwhelmed. Peter laughs, feeling a little mad. The man lowers his hand from Peter’s jaw.

Then he stabs Peter in the gut. 

It’s a quick, cramped pain that sears straight through his abdomen. Peter looks up to him, shock welling tears in his eyes. He doesn’t understand why. Why any of this is happening.

Though his wrists are bound, Peter grips the man by the wrist, trying to hold him still. 

“Go ahead and cry,” the man says softly. “You’ll go for more if you cry.”

Go for more? Peter can’t quite make sense of that either.

He yanks out the knife and Peter is left clutching the wound, blood bubbling between his fingers. Stomach wounds hurt. They hurt a lot. The crowd watches breathlessly as the bleeding ebbs, then stops. Peter lowers his hands, and the stomach is healed.

A polite round of clapping sounds from the audience.

“Let’s start the bidding at one million,” the woman says over the loudspeaker. And then finally,  _finally_ Peter gets it.

He’s being sold.

“We have two offers for one million,” the woman continues, though Peter can’t see or hear how people are bidding. Not that the  _how_  matters in the slightest. It matters that they  _are._ “Let’s raise the bidding to 1.5 million. Two million. Three.”

Peter’s attention snaps to the man next to him, the only face he can see. “Please,” he says up to him. “You don’t want to do this.”

The man points his finger up towards the intercom system, where the woman is still taking bids. The ramble of numbers is enough to imply what the man isn’t saying.

“…Five and a half. Six. Ten million…”

No, he’s not being sold. Peter is being  _auctioned off._

Alight with panic, the  _oh-no-please-no-I-don’t-want-to-go_ kind of panic, Peter has to act fast. He has to get out of here. He can’t be  _sold._

Abruptly, Peter drops to the ground on his bound hands and sweeps his legs against the man’s ankles. The man falls hard. His skull cracks against the platform with a loud  _SMACK_.

Peter makes a break for it.

He’s already leapt off the platform when the hair along his arms rises. The click of a gun’s safety rings loud through the room. It’s a small room. Even a stormtrooper could aim and hit him in this size room.

He braces for it.

Peter is shot in the back. The bullet lances straight through his shoulder. He staggers, but still makes his way to the wall, to the vents.

There’s another scatter of applause. Jesus Christ.

It’s slower going, scaling a wall with his arms bound. Peter can’t use his palms to climb, only his extended fingers. He’s only a few feet off the floor when he’s shot twice. Once in the thigh, then again in the small of his back. 

He drops to the ground. Peter tries to get up. He tries so hard, but…

He can’t.

There is a beat of silence. Then the woman continues, “Do I hear eleven million? Twelve. Twelve million US dollars going once, going twice…”


End file.
